


Always on My Mind

by zetaophiuchi (ryuujitsu)



Series: Miss You Like a Home [2]
Category: Matthias & Maxime (2019)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Infidelity, Je Me Souviens, Light Angst, M/M, Spanking, Toxic Masculinity, fuck the pain away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:47:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26573977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryuujitsu/pseuds/zetaophiuchi
Summary: The thing about Matty Ruiz, Kevin thinks, the thing that keeps Kevin coming back for more and more and more, his goddamn masculine mystique, is that he’s just sofuckinguptight.
Relationships: Kevin McAfee/Matthias Ruiz
Series: Miss You Like a Home [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1932901
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26





	Always on My Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Harris Dickinson had, what, like five minutes of screen time? And ten lines? And I’m obsessed. Companion piece to my Matt/Max fic, [Miss You Like a Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26311420).

The thing about Matty Ruiz, Kevin thinks, the thing that keeps Kevin coming back for more and more and more, his goddamn masculine mystique, is that he’s just so _fucking_ uptight.

Is it the language barrier? Is it just that he’s too busy processing, translating _abso-fucking-lutely_ to _carrément_ , _Matty_ to _Matthias_ , his face like a stone, his brain whirring away? Kevin knows he’s got a brain in there, he’s seen Ruiz in action. He’s watched Ruiz take opposing counsel apart, blandly, expressionlessly, reducing people to legal arguments, reducing legal arguments to sentences and sentences to fragments. An hour with Ruiz and you won’t be able to remember why you ever thought you were right, you’ll just sit there like the fucking moron you know you are and nod along and feel foolish and maybe even ashamed. And you’ll sign what he puts in front of you.

He does all of this in French, of course. English is another story. Kevin talks to Ruiz in English a lot, not because it’s easier—his grandma’s French and he majored in fucking French, although you’d never guess, looking at him—not because it’s easier but because he likes the way Ruiz reacts, the way he tries to smile and gets stuck, the way his face freezes and his eyes light up with panic. He could turn the tables easily, Ruiz; he could open his mouth and blast Kevin with that Quebecois joual and leave him speechless and astounded, but the thought just doesn’t seem to occur to him. He’s just too fucking polite at work.

And Kevin’s never seen him outside of work. Although he’s tried. Ruiz arrives at every strip club, every bar, every hockey game, with his collar buttoned all the way to the fucking chin, in a suit. Because Kevin’s work. Kevin’s business. The line has been fucking drawn, as sharp as the single pleat crease in every pair of Ruiz’s work pants, and Kevin’s on the other side of it.

Kevin thinks if he could just get Ruiz to unbutton his fucking collar he’d come right there in his pants. He thinks about fucking Ruiz but he knows Ruiz’s ass is clamped so tight it would probably obliterate anything Kevin tried to put in it. Or give him a diamond dick.

His mouth, though: his mouth’s another story. He opens it up to talk about the law. He opens it up to suck Kevin’s dick. Wide open. Drooling. Drooling, but precise. Kevin can almost see it when he looks down, the slight frown of concentration between Ruiz’s eyebrows. There’s a dick in front of him and he’s going to take it apart like bad precedent, line by line. In fact, Kevin gets the sense that Ruiz forgets he’s there. That there’s a whole-ass human being attached to the dick in his mouth. He tugs on Ruiz’s hair to remind him, and Ruiz shivers for half a second and then forgets him again.

No two blowjobs are the same, either, with Ruiz. He doesn’t care what Kevin likes. Kevin isn’t even sure he’s fucking noticed. He’s just down there, on his knees, sucking placidly or desperately, depending on how the mood takes him, trying weird shit with his tongue, sometimes his teeth. One time he knelt there and nuzzled Kevin with his entire fucking face, his eyes closed, rubbing Kevin with his lips and nose and eyelids and cheek. Kevin fucking hates that he did this, because it haunts his dreams: the look of absolute fucking serenity on Ruiz’s face, and the flutter, the tickle, of his eyelashes. He knows Ruiz isn’t thinking about him, but he doesn’t know what Ruiz is thinking about. What he could possibly be thinking about. Or who.

Molly sucks his dick sometimes, and honestly, she’s way more fucking enthusiastic about it than Matthias fucking Ruiz. She even swallows. She’s into it. She gets wet doing it. Which is why he knew he had to wife her as soon as he could.

But Ruiz: Jesus. He made the first move, back in September. Followed Kevin into a stall and dropped like a stone. And turned down every single one of Kevin’s generous offers to reciprocate, afterward. As polite as can be. Dabbing at his mouth like they were at dinner. No, thank you. No, I’m good, got to go. Please ignore the fact that you and I can both see I have a tent in my pants big enough to house Cirque du fucking Soleil. He’d feel insulted about it, about Ruiz, if he weren’t so fucking fascinated.

“What the hell is going on in your head, man,” he says. À propos nothing. It’s Friday night. His body may be imprisoned in a fortress of lease agreements in a conference room in the middle of Ville Marie, but his own head is still floating in a bathroom stall at the Cleopatra. And his dick, well. It’s reliving some memories. He shifts in his chair.

Across the table, Ruiz looks inscrutable. Maybe he’s processing, translating. _Hell, head._ Eventually he shrugs. “Lot of stuff,” he says, in English. “Busy time for us.” He indicates the pile of documents. “Yes?”

No fucking shit, he replies.

Ruiz cracks a smile.

“Fuck this,” he says. “My eyes are crossin’.” He leans back, stretches. “Gonna take a fucking break.”

“Okay.”

“How about you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Matty.”

Ruiz looks up. “Yes?”

“I’m hard.”

“We’re not at the club.”

“I don’t need the club to get hard, Jesus,” he says. “You make me hard.” He leans back even more, until he’s teetering, to show him.

“ _Criss de tabarnak_ ,” Ruiz mutters. He turns a page, but Kevin can see him looking, from the corner of his eye, from under those long fucking eyelashes. “Go jerk off in the toilet. I don’t want to be here all night.”

Don’t you? You practically fucking live here, he thinks. If you went home last night, I didn’t see you. Dick move, Ruiz, leaving that blonde of yours all alone night after night. Sara or Sarah. Her smile’s so cute I didn’t even look at her tits. Nice legs, too. I hope you bought her a vibrator.

“Matt. Matthias. Matty. C’mon. I’ll buy you dinner. Smoked meat?”

“ _Osti_ ,” Ruiz says. And then he says, very clearly, very carefully, like he’s been fucking rehearsing, “In that case, I would like to try something new.”

Ooh. “Be my fucking guest.”

“Cool,” Ruiz says flatly. Jesus, he’s a robot. He gets up and leaves the conference room. _Bleep blorp._ Kevin drums the table, swivels around, texts Molly. She’s at a bachelorette party with “the girls.” He doubts she’s going to see his messages until tomorrow afternoon. She probably isn’t even going to check. He loves this about her, this level of chill. His mother used to sit up by the telephone and call: _Where are you? Where are you? I know you’re with her, I know you’re with that slut._

And on that note—

He sticks his head out of the conference room. “Ruiz?”

“Coming. Here.”

Ruiz slips back in and locks the door. He looks a little embarrassed. He puts a condom and a bottle of lube on the table.

Kevin inhales. It’s involuntary. He hears himself hiss. “Oh, shit.”

“If you want.” Ruiz looks right at him with those dark fucking eyes. Bedroom fucking eyes, fuck. “If you are interested.”

“I dunno, man,” he says. His mouth is dry. “I don’t really go for…I mean, no offense, but…”

“ _C’est pour moi_.”

“Oh.”

“We don’t have to.”

He recovers. “Nah, dude, I’ll try anything once.”

Except taking it up the ass yourself, Ruiz’s ironic glance seems to say. Well, whatever. He feels like he should be rolling up his sleeves. After a moment, he does. Cufflinks on the table, plink plink. Molly got them for him, for October: silver skulls. Ruiz is still looking at him. Staring.

He wants to ask why. He doesn’t. As if Ruiz would tell him.

“Sure, let’s do it,” he says. He leans in.

Ruiz recoils. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing you.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I’m not gonna—come on, man. I’m not just gonna. You know. Shove it in. It doesn’t work that way.”

Another coolly ironic look. “I know,” Ruiz says. “How it works.”

Jesus, his tie’s gonna fucking choke him. And his fly is doing something evil to his dick. He can’t decide what to loosen first. “Do you?” Well, then again, Ruiz sucks dick like a scientist. Hypothesis. Experiment. Results.

Results inconclusive. Ruiz waits, silent. He looks nervy, actually, Kevin thinks. Kind of pale. Like he might sprint out of the room. Or throw a punch. Or both.

“All right, all right, fine.” He holds up his hands: _don’t shoot_. “I’ll keep my lips to myself.”

In answer, Ruiz takes off his suit jacket and slings it over his chair. He undoes his belt. His hands are shaking, Kevin sees, with anxiety or excitement. Not so robotic after all. Or maybe the system’s glitching out.

Ruiz is wearing red boxer-briefs today. He starts to lower them: a flash of curly dark hair.

He swallows. “Take your fucking tie off, at least.”

“Why?” Ruiz says. He turns, then stops. “Which way do you want me?”

 _Any way you want it, that’s the way you need it_ , Kevin’s brain supplies inanely, in the heartbeat before the rest of his blood storms south. He bends Ruiz over—forces him down, with his hands around Ruiz’s wrists. He lays Ruiz’s hands flat on the table, palms on the grain.

Ruiz breathes underneath him. He holds still, like a stunned deer. They can both feel it, Kevin thinks, the heat and hardness of him, pressing against Ruiz’s ass.

“Do you wanna do the honors,” Kevin asks, “or should I?” Soft, right in his ear, that purr that drives Molly wild. Ruiz smells like aftershave: cedar and balsam and musk. Stubble rasps against Kevin’s chin. “Matt?”

Ruiz shudders. “Whatever—whatever you want. Whichever.”

He releases Ruiz’s wrists and pulls his briefs down. Nice ass, he thinks. A little hairy. He realizes it’s his first time seeing it. He wouldn’t call it clenched, exactly, but it tenses up as he slaps it, lightly, with an open hand. Ruiz jolts.

“Mm.”

“Kevin. Don’t—don’t waste time on this.”

Another slap, not so light this time. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“ _Marde_ ,” Ruiz whispers.

He spreads Ruiz, with his thumbs. Just to see what he’s dealing with. What they’re dealing with. And there it is, the diamond dick maker. Cute. You couldn’t fit a pencil in there, let alone a finger, or…

“Kevin, come on.”

He finds the lube. Some unscented organic bullshit. “Where’d you get this? Whole Foods?” But it feels satin soft and smooth, sliding all over his fingers. The Whole Foods joke lands, after a beat; Ruiz chuckles, and then he gasps. He bucks forward against the table like he’s trying to throw himself over it, an involuntary movement that he manages to control at the last second, his palms squeaking over the polish.

“Sorry—fuck—sorry.”

“Feels weird, huh.”

“Feels like— _marde_ —”

“Yeah, exactly.” He pushes in a little farther, watches Ruiz’s body swallow him up to the first knuckle. Fucking Christ. His dick’s gonna melt. “Well, don’t worry, it isn’t _marde_.” He pulls out and pushes back in: two fingers now. Ruiz is sucking at him and twitching, God. “I thought you said you knew how this worked.”

“In theory.” Ruiz makes a choked off groaning sound. “In theory.”

Well, shit. It’s a brand-new fucking bottle of lube, too. “What the hell, Ruiz.”

“It’s your first time too,” Ruiz shoots back. It’d be a more effective argument if he weren’t moaning into his folded arms. His cheek is pressed to the table now, and there’s a little patch of spit under his chin, shining under the fluorescents.

“Not my first rodeo, actually.”

“ _Quoi?_ ”

“ _C’est pas mon premier rodéo. Pas ma première fois._ ”

Ruiz is into the French, he discovers. He discovers it when Ruiz clamps down on his fingers and starts to pant.

“ _T’aimes ça_?”

“You said—” Ruiz gasps again. “You said, I’ll try anything once.”

“Figure of speech.”

“Who?” Ruiz says. “Who was—who did you—Moll—? _Cal—caliss_!”

Molly, yes, just once, just his finger; she wasn’t a fan. Some chicks dig anal; he’s slept with a bunch of them. But not Molly. And he doesn’t blame her. She’s missing some crucial anatomy, after all. Ruiz, on the other hand—he grins and strokes.

More swearing.

“Jealous?” He crooks his fingers, and Ruiz grunts. “Good?”

“Yes. _Yes_.”

“I’ll add another.”

“You don’t need to tell me…”

“I told you,” he says, “I’m not just going to shove it in.”

“Maybe you should,” Ruiz says, muffled. “Maybe you would like that.”

He snorts. “Are you asking me to hurt you?”

Ruiz is obstinately silent.

“Jesus fuck, Ruiz.” Just to spite him, he squeezes out even more lube onto his fingers, until he’s really squelching. “Three fingers now,” he adds, as cheerful commentary. “Gonna get you nice and ready.”

“Fuckshitfuck,” Ruiz says.

Squish. “You hear that? You hear yourself?”

“Put it in me,” Ruiz says. “ _Maudite marde_. Put—McAf— _Kev_ —” _S’il te plaît, s’il te plaît._

Well. He’s only human. And it would _plaît_ him very much. He pulls out. Tries to wipe his fingers clean on a printout, but that goes about as well as you’d expect. He nudges the condom toward Ruiz’s face. “Open that for me. Thanks.”

When he gets his dick free he’s surprised it isn’t purple. He’s been blue-balling all evening, he thinks, watching Ruiz work, watching him chew the end of that pen of his. Running the end of that pen all over those lips. Sucking on it. The arrogance of his face at rest, the same face he rubbed all over Kevin’s dick and balls, kneeling so beautifully on the bathroom floor at the Cleopatra.

Ruiz passes the condom back with shaking fingers. He rolls it on, lines himself up, and slides the head of his dick between Ruiz’s ass cheeks, up and down, up and down. He’s so slick with lube he can barely keep hold of himself.

“Christ, fuck, shit,” Ruiz says, again and again. His palms are splayed on the table, fingers spread, gripping. His legs are buckling, bending at the knee. His heels are lifting out of his patent leather shoes. And he’s trembling. He’s shaking like a fucking leaf.

“Breathe,” Kevin tells him. And pushes.

The noise Ruiz makes is lost in the groan _he_ lets out. “Fuck,” he says, “ _fuuuck_.” He tries to move and can’t. Ruiz, Ruiz’s fucking amazing ass, is squeezing him like a vise. “Relax,” he says. “C’mon, relax, let me—”

He loops one hand around Ruiz’s collar and grips Ruiz’s shoulder with the other, and then, as Ruiz exhales, he slips all the way home.

“ _Tabar—_ ” Ruiz starts, and then he bites down on the inside of his left sleeve and groans.

It’s the noisiest he’s ever seen Ruiz, and he relishes it; it spurs him on, makes him snap his hips just a little bit harder, just a little bit faster, to keep jolting those half-panicked cries out of Ruiz’s throat. He might be choking Ruiz a bit, too, he realizes, with his hand clenched so tight around the silk band of Ruiz’s tie, but Ruiz doesn’t seem to mind, and it’s for sure not affecting his lungs. He’s making animal sounds now, belly sounds, moaning and gasping. Kevin wants to bite him. He wants to and he does, bending forward so he can sink his teeth into the meat of Ruiz’s right shoulder. Ruiz writhes under him. He wishes he’d convinced Ruiz to take it off—his tie, his shirt—so he could see him now, the rippling muscle and narrow waist, the sudden gleam of sweat on his olive-colored skin. He holds Ruiz by the neck and slaps his ass until it turns red.

“You like that? You like that? You want more?”

“Oh my God,” Ruiz says faintly. “Oh my God—”

 _Oh my God_ , Kevin’s mind echoes, _the shade, we forgot to lower the fucking shade._ He can see the hallway over Ruiz’s back, pitch black through the single glass wall of the conference room. Thank God for shitty motion sensor lights. But there’s a night guard, isn’t there? David or Patrick or Pierre? He thinks he can see someone out there, a frozen silhouette at the edge of his vision. At any moment, he thinks. At any moment, a beam. A flood of light. A cry of shock. Perversely, the thought just gets him harder.

And Ruiz keens. “Oh my God, God, fuck, _osti de_ —” He covers his own mouth with his hands and makes a noise like a sob.

He hisses. “You’re gonna squeeze my dick right off.”

The only acknowledgment he gets is a muffled whimper.

“Wanna come?” he asks. “Or do you just want me to fuck you sloppy and send you home?”

“No, no, fuck, no—”

He doesn’t wait for clarification. He reaches around and takes Ruiz’s dick in his fist: another first. It’s bigger than he expected, he realizes, nice and heavy, and says so. He’s not sure Ruiz hears him. He’s trembling again, gasping. One tug and his legs seem to give out. Kevin pins him to the table with his hips and grinds into him, and Ruiz spasms—in his hand, around his dick—

“ _Fuck_ ,” he grunts, “oh _fuck_ ,” and comes. He thinks Ruiz comes too, just then, with a garbled yell, spurting on and between his fingers.

He pulls out slowly. Ruiz stays where he is, sprawled out and spread. There’s lube on the table, lube and spit and cum. The drafts are ruined. They’ll have to print out a new set and wipe everything down. He sighs, and Ruiz’s hole twitches, and his spent dick jerks at the sight of it. I was just there, he thinks, in that body, using that body, and he fucking loved it. And he thinks: I could go for another round. At a more relaxed pace. Nice and slow, my hand over his mouth, my hand on his dick. He can be as loud as he wants. Just as soon as I lower the shade.

Ruiz inhales, shaky.

“Jesus. You okay?”

“Fine,” Ruiz says.

“Did I—fuck. Did I hurt you?” _You asked me to_ , he thinks, mulish. _You’re the one who wanted it before you were ready, don’t cry about it now._

But Ruiz says, sitting up, waving him off, “No, no. It’s nothing. Just give me a second.”

“You got it.” He takes the fucked-up agreements to the shredder on his way to the bathroom. Chucks the condom into a toilet and flushes; watches as it swirls away. He gazes into the bowl, the flowing water, slack-jawed, meditative. He's destroyed the evidence now, but he can still feel the phantom clutch of Ruiz around his dick. The impossible heat. And the gasping, _fuck_ , the gasping. It's still fluttering around in his ears. The gasping and the squeak of Ruiz's hands on the table. Great, he thinks, fan-fucking-tastic: another thing that's going to fucking haunt him.

When he comes back, Ruiz is just lowering himself gingerly into his chair. His tie is loose. His collar is open to the second button. His eyes are suspiciously bright.

“Matty.”

“I’m fine.” Ruiz can’t look at him. “That was, um. Very good.”

“Fuck yeah it was. I’m down to do it again. Soon.”

“Oh—cool.”

“Can’t get your girl to peg you, huh? Never asked? You should.”

Ruiz doesn’t even try to process that one. He just looks lost. You’re thinking about it again, Kevin thinks. Whatever it is that’s been bothering you since before I met you. Whatever it is. Whoever. The person who isn’t your cute leggy blonde. Or me.

“Is it Sara like S-A-R-A or is there an H?”

Slow blink. A tear forms at the corner of Ruiz’s left eye and they both pretend it isn’t there. “Uh, _avec_ —with an H.”

He claps Ruiz on the shoulder. The tear falls. “Let’s get some food,” he says. “Smoked meat, like I said. I’m fucking starving.”

“You ever have someone?” Ruiz asks, months later. They’re fucking on the regular now, in that conference room, in Ruiz’s new office, in the handicapped stall of the washroom three floors up. Sarah’s ditched Ruiz, and Kevin’s turned into the kind of asshole who keeps lube in his top drawer and condoms in his wallet. “Before Molly? Someone special?”

He means: a guy. There was a guy in university. Well, a bunch of guys. But this one guy, Jamie. Kevin can’t even remember his last name now. McCaffrey. McCallister. Campbell? Lived on the same floor for a year. Came to all his games. Walked him to class. Watched him play Call of Duty. Sucked his dick every weekend for six months. Let Kevin try to fuck him and cried because it hurt. Cried because he loved him so damn much.

He went home with Jamie that year, for Thanksgiving. God knows why. He doesn’t. Maybe it was the bliss of feeling worshipped. Maybe it was because he was already halfway in love. Maybe he really wanted to stick it to the old man, although—2009, was it?—he isn’t sure his father even noticed. Too busy getting it on with Wife No. 3. Or Mistress 4.

Jamie had dark brown eyes and a dimple. He tells Ruiz about Jennifer Laurel Wells.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you liked, please [reblog](https://hallo-catfish.tumblr.com/post/629844480363790336/always-on-my-mind-zetaophiuchi-ryuujitsu)!


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